


Ain’t So Bad

by doctor__idiot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x23 “All Along the Watchtower”, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 12:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: “You know,” Dean says, his shoulder pressed warmly against Sam’s, “This ain’t so bad.”





	Ain’t So Bad

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a post in the Wincest Writers group on Facebook.

“You know,” Dean says, his shoulder pressed warmly against Sam’s, “This ain’t so bad.”

“You think?” Sam shoots back but it’s without heat. 

To be honest, he’s tired. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen getting to him but Dean is right. This isn’t the worst way it could have ended for them. Although suffocating isn’t exactly a nice death, he figures it could be worse.

For example, he could be alone. Dean could be alone. That thought is the truly scary one, not the fact that he– _they_ were dying.

A tiny part of him is actually relieved. He turns his head to the side, nudging his brother’s shoulder.

“Could be worse,” he says and Dean isn’t looking at him, his eyes closed and head tilted back against the wall. Sweat is drying at the base of his throat.

He gives a small, tired smile. “Yeah, Sammy,” he says, “Indeed it could.”

Then he stills next to Sam, the sudden change of postiture alerting Sam. “Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

“What?”

Dean blinks his eyes open and his face is split by a grin way too exhilarated for their situation. “Son of a bitch. Should’a thought of it sooner.”

“Hey, _Beautiful Mind_ ,” Sam snaps his fingers, “What is it?”

Dean jumps to his feet, impressingly agile for someone who is suffering from oxygen deprivation and has just tried to take down a concrete wall. He holds his hands out to Sam and Sam grabs them on instinct, lets himself be pulled to his feet.

Dean is obviously giddy and it’s infectious. Maybe they’re both a little delirious already.

“I knew I’d get a chance someday,” Dean says, nearly bouncing on his feet as he jogs ahead of Sam to the garage. 

Sam has stopped trying to make his brother tell him what kind of idea he’s cooking up. When Dean gets like this, he rambles, and there’s no getting through. Sam figures they only have a couple minutes left anyway and it doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that Dean’s left hand is still linked with Sam’s right, tugging him along impatiently.

When they reach the Impala, Dean pops the trunk and rummages around until he gives a triumphant hoot and extracts from the mess ... the grenade launcher. 

He is grinning up at Sam like a child who has just been promised an entire cookie package and Sam can’t help but laugh out loud. If it sounds a little hysterical, no one mentions it.

Dean cradles the grenade launcher like he would a child, then hefts it up onto his shoulder.

On his way out, he turns to Sam and says, “Hey, Sammy?” For the first time, he lets the uncertainty bleed through his Butch Cassidy façade. Then his face changes and the corner of his mouth turns up. “If we survive this,” he says, voice smooth, “I’ma make love to you all night, baby boy, you hear? Gonna make you feel it for the whole week.”

Sam gets the feeling it isn’t what Dean meant to say originally but it sounds a little like _I love you_ anyway and makes heat pool low in his belly regardless. He looks after his brother, who is standing framed by the doorway with his now favorite tool slung over his shoulder, face and hair grimy with dust and sweaty from exertion, and he’s utterly beautiful.

Sam manages, “You better,” and he hopes it sounds like _I love you, too._

 

“This is absolutely bonkers. You’re lunatics.” Tony regards them with incredulity and thinly veiled fear. Sam allows himself to revel in it a little. 

“Yup,” Dean says to her, looking entirely too smug and Sam gives him the same look in return. He grabs Toni’s arm. She protests, “The whole bloody place will come crashing down on our heads.”

Dean shrugs, “Either way, we’re as good as dead. Let me have some fun, will ya?”

She snorts in disgust but doesn’t struggle against Sam’s grip as he steers her toward safety from the blast.

He looks back at Dean who plants his feet, lines up the weapon with a sure grip. It should be ridiculous, the entire thing is nuts, but all Sam can do is admire the way Dean‘s biceps bulge with the weight of the metal. 

He rounds the corner and plants himself and Toni against the wall, waiting for the explosion.

When it comes, it shakes through the entire place, making the floor vibrate. Toni covers her head, breathes, “Jesus,” but no rubble buries them, there’s merely some dust coming from the ceiling, settling in their hair. 

The men of letters apparently knew how to build to last.

Sam can feel the air becoming thin now and his lungs are screaming at him. The headache that has been pounding behind his temples for some time already is steadily getting worse.

When he stumbles back into the foyer, there is a giant gaping hole marring the wall, rusty stairs peaking out from behind it. Dean is nowhere in sight.

Sam has to support himself on the illuminated table in the center because his vision is starting to swim. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries fruitlessly to draw air into his lungs. Just when he thinks he is going to pass out, the lights switch back on and the air pumps kick in, whirring to life just in time.

He draws controlled breaths until it doesn’t feel like his head is going to split in two anymore and he hears the heavy front door screech open. 

“Hey lunatic,” Dean calls down to him over the banister. His face is even dirtier than before, his fingertips nearly black with dirt, and he is limping slightly, knee scraped bloody.

“How’d that happen?” Sam asks, voice thin and scratchy. He coughs.

Dean gestures with the grenade launcher at his side. “This thing’s got one hell of a kick.”

“I bet.” Sam coughs again and plants his backside against the edge of the table to catch his breath.

Dean makes his laborious way down the stairs and joins Sam, pushing maps and books out of the way as he scoots onto the tabletop, wincing at the pull in his knee. Sam puts his palm on Dean’s thigh, next to the wound.

“Can’t believe you actually did that,” he says, gaze trailing over the hole in the wall.

Dean gives him an exhausted grin. “Well, what can I say? I’m crazy.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah.” He squeezes Dean’s thigh. “You better make good on that promise you gave me.”

Dean puts his own, soothy hand on top of Sam’s. “You know I will.”


End file.
